by Sally Orr
Eve could think of a million things to say, but none of them seemed appropriate. “Thank you, Father.” Her words sounded hollow, so she tried to lighten the situation by giving him a warm smile—except that did not turn out well either.
“Both Mrs. Buxton and Lady Buxton are women of consequence. Indeed, Mr. Buxton deals with a number of government committees that contribute to many of our scientific institutions. So we must be careful not to offend them. Do you understand?”
She nodded and smiled again, but he must have known both of these expressions were false. Happiness eluded her today. “I understand.”
“For some reason, Lady Buxton has intervened and asked for our party to remain awhile longer, perhaps a week. She expressly wants you to compile your parhelia observations with the assistance of that undisciplined coxcomb, but I refused. Since she and her late husband were early subscribers to the Royal Institution of Great Britain, she desired the two of you pen a letter describing the phenomena and send it to the secretary. We don’t wish to offend her, but I managed to convince her the task would be yours alone. It is for our combined future success that I ask you now to give me your word to wed Charles Henry.”
Eve glanced at the cat lifting his head to determine if her father had a suitable lap.
Her father took a long draft on his pipe, crossed his legs to dissuade the animal, and exhaled slowly before he spoke again. “Women’s minds are not as disciplined as the male mind, and I fear you are falling in love with that capricious rake. Do you love him?”
She looked directly at him but remained silent.
His countenance remained fixed like stone. “I suspect Lady Buxton must be aware of some partiality of his lordship’s and wishes to forward some silly feminine idea of romance. Granted, the young man is handsome, but I firmly believe the two of you could never be happy. Considering his lack of seriousness, what would the two of you do all day?”
“Sing.” The word escaped before she could check herself.
He slammed his pipe down on the table. “It is for that very reason—your partiality toward him—that I insist you must give me the assurances I seek. Lord Boyce could never be interested in you as a wife, so do not be a foolish female and harbor expectations in that quarter.”
Eve had convinced herself of that fact some time ago. “Don’t worry. I know his lordship could never have serious intentions in regard to me, but I do not love Charles Henry. Indeed, he has no concept of love.”
The fight within her father vanished. He hung his head slightly and sighed. “I promised your mother…” He paused, staring at her. “She asked me to ensure that you wed a man of your own choosing.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “However, the situation has changed. Indeed, I planned to keep this from you, because I don’t know how to say this. But now you must be told.”
“Father?” She started toward him, his distress palpable in his voice.
He dropped his head on his chest. “I am going blind.” He held up his hand to stop her approach. “No, do not pity me. The condition is gradual, thank heavens. But now you know my full reasons for asking you to wed Charles Henry. In the future, I will require a great deal of assistance.”
“Of course, I will help you.” She hugged him anyway, her arms wrapped around his rough wool coat. “I didn’t know about this. You should have told me earlier. What did your physician say?”
“Why?”
“I-I don’t know precisely. Maybe I can help you more.” She returned to her chair and stared into the fire. Several minutes passed while she watched the dust dance in the beams of firelight. She lost the war without firing a shot—her fleeting, infant dreams of choosing her own man to love died with her father’s disclosure. Her spirits sagged to a new low. “I will agree to wed Charles Henry, but I must ask for a concession in kind. Please let me give him my answer and choose the time to announce our engagement. Gentlemen don’t always understand a woman’s feelings, and for mother’s sake, let me announce it once the parhelia paper is finished.”
“I don’t see why—”
“Please.” She rose and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I cannot explain now, but you have my word. I have always done my duty by you, so I promise to announce my engagement before we return to London.”
Fourteen
“Father has arrived? My father?” If someone had told Boyce that a trout had happily walked out of the nearest stream and enjoyed a chat with Lady Buxton in the library, he would have believed that before he would have believed the marquess had left his country seat during a grouse-shooting party.
“He is actually very sweet,” Eve said as they stood in the hall in front of the dining room door. “Seems years ago, he and Lady Buxton’s husband had been business partners in a canal venture. The two have even met numerous times before, so they had plenty of catching up to do.”
Boyce’s head continued to spin. “How come you know so much? Sounds like you were in the room.” She smiled, and the lovely sight caused his spinning wits to become even more disordered.
“I was,” she said. “Lady Buxton invited me to join them. She was anxious that the marquess should be introduced to the young lady who had ensured the safety of his youngest son. I must say, at first he seemed just like one would expect from a marquess. You know, full of propriety and aware of his consequence. But after ten minutes of polite conversation, I was pleasantly surprised to find your father so amiable. By the time we left to dress for dinner, we exchanged jests like old friends.”
Boyce felt the earthquake caused by the words father and amiable used in the same sentence. However, she seemed unconcerned and failed to clutch the walls for support, but he could have sworn the whole house shook.
“I, of course,” she continued, “told him all about your courage during the flight. How after such a harrowing ascension, you bravely refused to land immediately…”
“You do have a talent for a good tale. Really, you must write a novel.”
“I saw no evidence he ignores you. He was very interested in your efforts to assist me with the experiments and sounded very complimentary.” She stopped and colored. “Maybe we all think our parents ignore us. Oh, I hear someone coming. How about you take me in to dinner?” She placed her arm on his sleeve.
Several members of the household approached the dining room door. Deep in conversation, Mr. Mountfloy and Mr. Henry entered the hallway. When they reach the door, Mr. Henry stepped forward to address Eve. “May I take you in to dinner tonight?”
Boyce’s shaken wits returned in enough time to object to this plan. “I asked her—”
“Of course you can,” Lydia said, descending the staircase in a cloud of sky-blue silk. “Dear Boyce will escort me in to dinner.”
As soon as these words were spoken, Lady Buxton and his father arrived in the hallway. The marquess offered his arm to the older woman. “May I have the honor?”
Boyce had never seen Lady Buxton’s stunning smile. The happiness crossing her countenance made him believe the rumors that she had once been the toast of London, the brightest star of her season.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” Lady Buxton said, nodding for the footman to open the dining room door. As she and the marquess strode into the room, she said, “I am afraid we are an odd number tonight. I invited our neighbor, Mr. Sackville, to join us. Unfortunately he was unavailable, so we will just have to make do.”
Boyce led a beaming Lydia into the cavernous, formal dining room. One wall was dominated by an open hearth big enough for a man to walk into while the longest mahogany dining table he had ever seen appeared like dollhouse furniture under the high ceilings. With room for at least twenty people on each side, only one end had been set for dinner. He pulled out Lydia’s chair.
She patted her hand on the chair next to hers. “You will sit here next to me, dear Boyce. Now, isn’t this pleasant.”
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br /> His father lifted a brow, and Boyce tried to imagine how much tittle-tattle he had heard or imagined about his son’s behavior in Sussex. More than likely, Boyce would need to provide explanations later.
Unfortunately, Eve sat on the other side of the table, next to his father. Since Mr. Henry had claimed her hand for dinner, her apple pout continued to linger. Strange feature, that pout. He had never witnessed any feature that demanded to be kissed more.
After the service of clear turnip soup liberally doused with fragrant sherry, the conversation lagged. Except for Lady Buxton and his father, who seemed like a pair of whispering children at the end of the table. In an attempt to free Eve from the humdrum conversation of Mr. Henry, he said, “Did you tell your father all about the technical details of our discovery?”
She failed to answer him and shook her head; a small smile appeared.
Mr. Mountfloy admonished her with a single glance.
Lady Buxton leaned over and whispered something to the marquess again.
“Tell me about the earl’s race,” his father addressed him. “Since I understand it was the reason behind your remarkable balloon flight.”
“Oh, yes,” Lydia said. “I would like to hear about the earl’s wager too. I am sure the courage he has shown in accepting the challenge will be to dear Boyce’s credit.”
When young, there were many times Boyce had eyed the tablecloth by his knees and thought about lifting it up to spend the dinner under the table—out of sight and unable to respond to any remark. This time, he dreamed about how wonderful it would be to crawl under the table and lay his head on Eve’s lap. Glancing back at his father, Boyce found his father holding his spoon full of soup suspended in the air, waiting for his reply.
“Please, let me tell the story,” Eve said, turning to speak directly to his father. “Your son’s modesty might cause him to leave out the parts of the story where he was indeed a hero.”
Boyce remained speechless as Eve continued to describe his honorable intentions to ensure the future happiness of Lady Sarah. Right now, right here, he desired nothing more than to kiss her senseless. Then she continued to praise the intelligence behind his decision to hire the most forward technology of the day to get him to France, and the generosity of spirit he showed helping her complete her experiments under difficult conditions. By the end of her speech, he had become the only person who could have helped her, his efforts the sole reason for their success. She obviously needed him, and from her description, he sounded like one of the finest fellows on the planet.
The ladies of the priory both cooed over the tale of his adventures, while his father sat silently ruminating over his beef joint.
Boyce stared at Eve, and she winked—winked. A song bubbled up, but one glance at his father’s expression and the song died before he had the chance to give it life.
Lady Buxton and his father once again started to whisper to each other.
Lydia sighed. “Oh, there really are so many great men in England, are there not? I do wish my dear Buxton was here tonight.”
Mr. Mountfloy turned to his daughter. “The parhelia data will cement our position in the sciences and ensure future donations. You must write up the parhelia’s observed distances from the sun while the events are still fresh in your mind.”
This caught the marquess’s attention. “I am sure Lady Buxton would allow my son to help Miss Mountfloy compose, as you say, their observations here at the priory. Two memories are better than one, so there would be no chance of any important detail being lost.”
“I do not mean to insult your lordship,” Mr. Mountfloy said, “but your son is not trained for this type of work. Despite a single balloon ascension, his life has been frittered away on frivolities.”
“I think my son can remember enough to assist your daughter, sir,” the marquess pronounced. “He may give the appearance of a high-spirited, carefree fellow”—he looked at Boyce—“the singing comes to mind, inherited from his grandfather on the maternal side. But of my eight sons, my relatives always believed his amiability would guarantee his success in life.” The marquess turned to Lady Buxton. “I have recently learned he played an instrumental role in turning his older brother’s publishing business into a profitable one, solely from the acquisition of a popular novel. I firmly believe that Boyce has the abilities to surpass all of the accomplishments of his brothers, except Richard’s, of course. Perhaps by winning this race to France? The point of the matter is, my friend Gunstone collects butterflies. He discovered some orange monster that proved to be of interest to the Royal Institute of Great Britain. I can’t tell you how impressed I was to hear Gunstone speak at an afternoon lecture. So there is precedence for amateurs contributing to discovery.”
Lady Buxton nodded. The gesture was a small one, but it caused the two tall feathers on her ornate turban to move dramatically. “Yes, he must assist Miss Mountfloy. Dear Boyce is quite capable.” She leaned over to address his father. “He has your dear wife’s charity too.”
Boyce gulped. He had never heard such praise or his father speak of his future with such optimism. A song instantly came to mind, but he suppressed it for the time being. He’d sing later, by himself.
Mr. Mountfloy laid down his fork. “With my respects, I must disagree with you both. You, sir, gave him the cut direct, and rightly so. Besides, I do not see how any man could contribute to science with the nickname Piglet Parker.”
Several people gasped.
Boyce’s mind whirled and the feeling of inadequacy returned. His failures once again paraded in front of his father.
His father ignored the insult to his son and remained silent.
Everyone focused on eating their meal.
Boyce became physically sick. Without any support from the others and lacking the presence of mind to defend himself, he excused himself with as much dignity as he could muster and left the room.
* * *
Staring up at the high, square windows in the priory’s library the following day, Eve sat at the long table waiting for Parker. Her father eventually had to agree with Lady Buxton that two heads were better than one when it came time to remember an event. Even he did not want to lose any important data, so he agreed to them writing the letter together. She inhaled deeply and smiled. Looking up, the round, stone room reminded her of a large dovecote. She wondered if, centuries ago, monks had walked endless circles in prayer in this room. She hoped not.
Someone neared, whistling an upbeat tune.
Parker entered the room and smiled at her. “Happy to be here and happy to see my brave aeronaut. Shall we start with a song?”
She laughed. “What kind of song? Getting our parhelia observations down on paper is serious and important, so the tune should reflect that.”
“Funeral dirge?”
“Not quite that serious.”
“How about that Handel dance tune with all those small steps a fellow can never remember? Step over here—step over there—in—out—up—down, then beg your partner’s forgiveness.”
“Minuet?”
“Yes, that’s it.” He glanced up at the ceiling and whistled. “This room is so perfectly round, I’ll bet your balloon would fit inside. What do you think?”
Eve examined the dimensions of the room. “It’s a hair too small; our balloon would become wedged between the walls.”
“It’s funny how I’ve come to love that balloon.” He strode over to the table, moved a chair next to her, and sat. “I tell you, my friend, I really miss it. Yes, yes, I don’t miss the cold, the brief rain shower that fouled your instruments and made you quite grumpy, not to mention the carnage of the butterfly. Yet, I do miss its freedom.” He slapped his thigh. “Especially the soul-searing calm freedom of the universe above us.”
She chuckled quietly. “With our fathers here, that sort of calm freedom becomes unobtainable, don’t you t
hink?” If she had used a ruler to measure the distance between them, it would reveal them to be significantly closer than strictly acceptable. For heaven’s sake, his shoulder almost touched her. And if her heartbeat escalated any more, there would be no way for her to complete the task before them. They’d fall into a spell of kissing—an altogether pleasant thought—but the consequences of discovery could be severe. “I mean no offense, but I’d prefer you to sit on the other side of the table. Then we can address one another face to face. Put a list of our experiments out in front, so both of us can check the accuracy. That is our number one goal in completing this parhelia paper. We must be ruthlessly accurate.”
He did not say anything at first, his profile inscrutable. “Right. Ruthless is the word. You’re the captain, remember?” He jumped over to sit on the other side.
Eve miscalculated. The ability to see him clearly was not an advantage for keeping her mind on the experiments. His curly, unruly hair demanded her smoothing touch.
He gave her a smile that began as a simmering grin, evolved into a bright smile, and reached a beaming crescendo.
She sharpened an already sharp pencil. “Today, let’s refresh our memories on the timeline of the experiments. I do not expect to include all of these results in the paper. But if we complete this first, we will not leave anything of significance out. A small detail about the type of clouds seen before the two parhelia appeared might become important when you present our paper.”
“If I’m invited to speak, I wonder if my father will be in the audience. I have to admit complete astonishment to see him walk through the door. I initially wrote to my brother Richard for assistance, so I did not expect to see the pater. I suspect he hurried down expecting to extract me from some imbroglio I had gotten myself into.”
“Maybe that is why he came, but he did seem genuinely interested in us writing the parhelia paper together before our recollections faded.”
